


Hail And Farewell

by Spineless



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to Sherlock unconscious on the floor, and the pockmark on his arm points to an inevitable relapse. But is John just too stubborn to believe his friend fell into old ways, or is there something more sinister afoot?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh wow look another fic in one day, crazy stuff. I'm still new to AO3, and I'd still really love feedback on this story. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you like it. 
> 
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.

This is not the first time that Mycroft Holmes waits for his brother to regain consciousness.

It is not the second time.

It is not the third.

It is not even the fourth time.

Mycroft Holmes will not admit to just how many times he has sat beside his brother's comatose body, waiting for him to wake up. If you ask him, he might threaten you with some sort of incarceration if you don't immediately _bug off_.

The elder brother sighs under his breath, his head leaning against his right hand his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. In his left he loosely holds his unnecessarily large umbrella.

The only sounds are the tapping of moderate rain against the window and the  _whirr_  and  _beep_ of the machines hooked up to his brother. Occasionally there is a murmur of excitement from the hallway, but as of late, it has been quite uneventful. Beyond the drawn drapes of the window, it is dark. The digital clock beside the bed reads a time late at night, late enough for it to be early morning. Mycroft stifles a wide yawn.

He had relieved that John Watson a few hours previously, telling his brother's colleague to return to Baker Street and get a bit of sleep; he'd call him if his condition changed.

That is a lie, however. Mycroft wouldn't call, even if his brother did suddenly awaken; he would call Watson in the morning, which was proper. No need to have him stumbling in the hospital at absurd hours.

That was only  _if_ his brother's condition changed.

Sherlock lay in the bed, head elevated slightly, an oxygen mask clasped over the lower portion of his face. His cheek bones jut out, hollower than usual, the doctors said he hadn't be eating. Of course he wasn't. He never did.

The spliced blue and red veins and capillaries are strikingly prominent against Sherlock's translucent skin; shadows under his eyes are like smudges of charcoal on a canvas. His curls are splayed against the pillow, coiling against his temple and forehead.

It's an upsettingly reoccurring and familiar sight for dear Mycroft. His brother's hobby/job was a dangerous one at times; working with the police means he has enemies, that he's a target. Mycroft's surveillance helped somewhat, but damn Sherlock was always sneaking around it.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock's other, less savoury pastimes. They usually included cylinders of rolled paper, powders, and injections. It's to help me think! he'd cry in vain. I'm bored!

Mycroft heard it all before.

But Sherlock,  _goddamn him_ , the self bastard, didn't think of how it was a stress on others. A parasite, his brother thinks bitterly. He's a leech sucking us dry. He latches on and wont let go.

He rubs his temples and looks up guiltily.  _I shouldn't be thinking such things_ , he thinks somberly. It's taboo to speak ill of someone in a hospital, even if they might deserve it.

Mycroft clears his throat. Checks his watch. Sighs.

He dozes, and dreams of Sherlock.

His little brother, with his shock of curls. His hair matted with blood. He's hunched over in an alley and Mycroft slowly approaches, calling his name. "Sherlock?" He lifts his head and his brother staggers backward. For his eyes are hollow, and blood leaks from fractures in his skin.

The scene crumbles, and suddenly, he's on the stairs of 221b, pushing the door open with the tip of his umbrella.

"Sherlock!" he calls. "Where the hell  _are_ you..."

There's a mountain of needles and empty syringes in the living room, reaching almost to the ceiling, and atop it lies Sherlock, fingers together in his thinking stance, reclining, eyes closed like he's lost in thought. He shifts, and everything topples.

Mycroft awakes to a bloodshot Dr. John Watson gently shaking his shoulder.

"Come on, then," the Doctor says uncertainly.

Mycroft curses himself for following asleep for so long. He clears his throat. "What time is it?"

"Eight," John says, glancing between the two brothers. He looks run down and slightly embarrassed. His sweater is wrinkled and his hair is a bit ruffled, like he came in a rush without combing it down.

Mycroft checks his watch as well, nodding. He rises, but doesn't go to leave. Instead, he approaches the window, stripes of pale light across his body. He moves the blinds over a bit, peering outside.

"Contrary to popular belief, I  _do_  care about my brother." He let's the blinds slide back into place. "That's why I offered you money to spy on him for me. He keeps finding the cameras I install in the flat. Got a bit expensive to keep replacing. "

John opens his mouth to speak, but Mycroft shakes his head, just slightly.

"It's not easy to live with Sherlock, is it?"

John blinks. "Er-no, it's not."

"Yes, I know, I used to. Always needlessly complicating everything. Couldn't just sit down, shut up, and do as he was told." He swallows sharply, still gazing toward the window. "He's reckless, obnoxious, a blatant rule breaker, and is absolutely atrocious in social situations. Yes, he's difficult at times, but that doesn't mean I don't love him."

John's face softens. "Mycroft. I know you love him. I'm sure no one loves him more."

Mycroft turns towards his brother's bed, a sad smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, John."

The background beeping quickens, but neither men notice.

The latter swallows and clears his throat, looking at the floor. "Mycroft."

"Mm?" He looks far away.

"I'm going to contact Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him take a look around the flat."

Mycroft frowns. "Why, John? There is no foul play afoot. Just an addict and his release."

_Come on, John_ , he will himself. "It doesn't  _appear_  so, that's true, but living with Sherlock has shown that nothing is really as it seems."  _Continue_. "Like... like his head wound." He gestures. "There wasn't any blood on any of the furniture. And I didn't find a needle when I returned earlier. I just-want a second opinion."

Translation: I don't want to believe Sherlock has slipped up.

The beeps are even faster now.

Both of them turn to the pallid detective. The numbers and ridges on the heart monitor begin to rise, and not gradually. A crease appears on Mycroft's forehead, even he realizes something isn't right.

The blood pumps loudly in John's ears, and he does something he promised never to do. Never in battle, never in the field, never working a case.

He freezes.

The scene makes no sense even as the doctors and nurses burst in, calling orders and clattering about.

_No._

He's safe at home, watching a gaudy, inaccurate medical drama as Sherlock shouts obscenities at the telly.

He is not watching his friend die.

A single tone cuts the air and someone is shouting, " _Get them out of here!"_

Time does not move as the monitor registers a flat line.

_No_.

John Watson's world crashes around him, full speed.

" _Sherlock!_


	2. Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't a danger night.
> 
> It wasn't a high-risk evening.
> 
> It wasn't a problem day.
> 
> It was a grocery run.

_Several hours prior_

* * *

It wasn't a danger night.

It wasn't a high-risk evening.

It wasn't a problem day.

It was a grocery run.

It was standard, really; there was never any damn food in the house, and John was hungry. Mrs. Hudson was away for the better part of the week, visiting her remaining family or something of the sort. So John called, "Be back eventually!" grabbed his coat, and was on his way. Sherlock barely grunted in response, but he had  _responded_.

John didn't take a cab. The man on the telly said the next day or so would be the last for a little bit of nice weather; then, rain. So, John walked. It was a mostly clear night, with a sliver of moon in the corner of the sky. He had gotten a few items, paid, and walked back.

Uneventful. Painfully so. He took less than an hour, dawdling only slightly.

So when there was no response at 221b, he thought nothing of it.

He realized why when he walked through the door.

On account of the fact that John Watson hadn't yet lived with Sherlock Holmes for quite that long, he hadn't had the (dis)pleasure of finding his flatmate unconscious on the floor.

The doctor cursed himself, cursed Sherlock, cursed his friend who recommended each other to live together.

The groceries fell to the scuffed floor with a muffled crash, and John bolted. he was an army doctor after all; this was his job.

John knelt beside his flatmate. "Sherlock," he called. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He rolled the him onto his back, keen eyes searching. They saw a gash on his forehead, still bleeding, and observed no splash of blood on the corner of a table or the arm of a chair. They followed from a shoulder to a rolled up sleeve and bare forearm.

_No._

John's breath caught in his throat and he allowed himself half a moment.  _No, god damn it, he's_ clean!

But the evidence proves otherwise.

Sherlock's chest did not move. It did not rise and fall with the expel and intake of air.

_No._

John's hands went over wrists and a neck, desperately searching. Expert fingers pressed against the jugular, seeking desperately.

Ah!

There it is!

Faint, but present.

John gasped in relief and pulled out his phone, dialing numbers quick. ""I need an ambulance, 221b, Baker Street," He was shouting. " _Hurry_."

There was no time to stop the bleeding head wound, breathing was a bit more important. John remembered the CPR lessons from his early days in medical school, where being an army doctor didn't even cross his mind. He had expectations of saving lives in a neat little hospital, bandaging up broken arms, cutting out appendixes, the occasional restart of a heart.

Nothing ever does go according to plan.

Three minutes without air, the body starts to shut down. Organs die. Brain damage.

But-how long had it been?

He leaned over his friend, hands together, compressing his chest in short bursts.

 _Goddamn_  you, Sherlock Holmes.

He told Mycroft it hadn't been a danger night.

"It never is," he had answered dryly.

John didn't know what to say to that. He gaped for a minute at the elder Holmes, who adjusted his cuffs like it was as common as rain that his younger brother had to be rushed to the hospital. "He was doing so well, too." He let out a gust of air. "Pity."

"Mycroft." John finally found his words. "Something is different this time, something is wrong. I was only gone for an hour, at  _most_ -"

"John, I've had Sherlock shoot up whilst I was in the next room over." He looked so annoyed, the hand clutching his omnipresent umbrella tensed. "Please try not to beat yourself up  _too_  much about this. Had he been eating?"

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock. He looked a bit thin. Had he been eating anything?"

John blinked. "I believe so." He wracked his memory for a shot of Sherlock taking a bite of something over the previous week or so. He came up empty, however. "Actually..."

Mycroft sighed. "I know we didn't have an  _official_  agreement, Dr Watson, but I at least hoped the well being of your friend was of somewhat importance."

"Hang on. Mycroft, you just told me not to worry about this."

"Well, assuming there weren't any signs, of course."

Something inside broke, just a little. "I told him to eat, but I was not going to force food down his throat."

"Well, maybe when you told him to ingest something, you should have specified not to ingest  _narcotics._ "

"Well  _excuse me_ , Mycroft, monitoring your little brother isn't  _my_  job. Actually, it's yours, isn't it?" John turned on his heel and headed toward the sliding doors of the hospital.

"Where are you going?"

John shot him a piercing look. "At least one of us cares about Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
